93 Miles

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• June 7, 2015

I guess it’s best to start at the beginning.  It may help you understand.  It may help to know I tend to be manic, and I get into these bizarre but familiar funks where I start to lose my shit.  Basically, you have rational thoughts, and irrational thoughts.  Everyone does.  If you’re remotely intelligent, you can tell the difference.  But these can get blurred if your mental state slips.

On a down-swing, comedy seems like a reward-less chore, friends and family seem like martians, and life itself seems exhausting.  About a week ago, my head was in a fog, and though I’ve been there before, it’s just something I can’t get used to.  Which is good.  I know people who have just gotten used to it, resigning themselves to such a mental state.  Good Lord, it frightens me to even wonder if I too will accept such a state.

I’m a junkie.  And I don’t mean for drugs.  I like to go to extremes to feel intense emotions.  No, I don’t like to.  I need to.  That’s why I jump off of cliffs.  That’s why I do drugs.  That’s why I do comedy.  I always want to be doing 100 mph.  I want to experience a pure emotion.  With nothing else tainting it.  It’s the only way, at least for me, to truly get a rise out of myself.  If you want to experience pure happiness, you’re going to have to be prepared for experiencing pure, no longer willing to live, misery.  This is the problem with being addicted to rapture, you’re going to get lows to the same degree.

No one in their right mind would bicycle for 93 miles.  Luckily for me, I’m not in my right mind.  Most people would train for such a distance, instead of doing it on half a whim.  Doing it because you want to bike to the End.  No, you’ve convinced yourself you need to.  As if the fate of the world depends on you riding your bike to the End.  It’s my mission now.  I won’t be stopped.  I won’t be discouraged.  My world depends on this, for no logical reason whatsoever.  The only trophy is a golden, cold beer… it’s the only trophy you want.

I know no one in their right mind would blow off work for a day to bike ride for 93 miles to reach a lighthouse at the End of a long fucking island, but lucky for me, I’m good friends with a lot of comics who are also at least a little bit insane, and the only convincing I had to do was a text which said, “take off work Friday. I’m biking to Montauk.”

I rode about about two miles to the Babylon train station to meet my buddy at 9:00am Friday morning, with a small backpack containing a few essential items.  It’s safe to say, we were both over confident at this point.

We’re off at 9:15, stoked for what, we assume, is going to be an awesome time, not considering how much pain we’re going to be in in the near future.  The first twenty miles were easy.  This is going to be no problem, we said to ourselves.   We continued on, without stopping, against the wind, and then suddenly, against the rain as well.  At this point, it was almost 1pm, and we’d gone about 43 miles.  I requested to stop at a gas station mart, to pee, hydrate, and get a plastic bag to wrap my phone in.  We stretched our legs, and ate protein bars.  Never has any protein bar tasted so delicious.  We were both feeling it at this point.  My quads were hurting, and my ass.  I was using my sisters mountain bike, which is not ideal for such a long trip on the road.  My buddy had just bought a new street bike, and when the road opened up, he was able to take off with a speed I could not keep up with on the mountain bike.  Street bikes have thin wheels, unlike mountain bikes which are designed for terrain.  The wheels on mountain bikes create twice as much friction, making my life harder.  His bike had one of those tiny hard seats, and that was killing him.  I took my mom’s seat, which was very comfortable, but after 40 miles, nothing is comfortable.  My ass in particular is very bony.  When my younger self crammed into cars with my friends, I was always thrown in the back seat, sitting on some poor guy or girls lap.  At first, they wouldn’t mind, because I was tiny and weighed maybe 100lbs, but after a few minutes, they’d always say, “I can’t feel my leg because Lori’s razor sharp ass has cut off all the circulation.”

With some protein in our bodies and some hydration, we kept on keeping on, with a little boost of energy.  Even the rain slowed down at this point, turning into a mist which would soon stop.  We’re half way there, I told myself, it’s not so bad, ignoring the signals from my body.
60 miles, and we’re now in South Hampton, which we considered a milestone, if for no other reason than having a milestone. We stopped for food and hydration again.  I was feeling it now.  My quads were screaming, and if my ass could talk, it would say, “fuck you, Lori.  You crazy cunt.”  No one is allowed to speak to me that way, except my ass.  Admittedly, at this point, I knew the rest of the ride was going to be painful.  I knew this was a little bit of a bad idea.  But I wasn’t going to give up.  There was no way I would jump on a train back west.  60 miles is more than half way there.  60 miles is already more than most people will ever bike in their lifetime.  Giving up was never an option.  Sorry, ass.

Once again, after food, electrolytes, and stretching, I found a second wind.  I was hurting but pumped up.  We’re in the Hamptons!  That’s almost there.  I forgot that the Hamptons go on forever.  South Hampton, Regular Hamptons, East Hampton, Mordor Hamptons.  Just how many goddamn Hamptons are they?  When does this shit end?  I thought we were close.

At about 5:20 we reached Montauk.  We’ve both been ready for a beer for a solid four hours.  Both of us are hurting, though neither of us want to look like pansy’s to the other, so we withhold our complaints.  The lighthouse is another ten miles away.  We didn’t bike all this way to not make it to the lighthouse.  Only ten more miles.  That’s it.  We’ve biked 83 miles, and there’s only ten to the End.  Montauk Point.  The End of Long Island.  Where we would save the world… from nothing.

If you’ve ever been to the Montauk lighthouse, you might recall there being three steady inclined hills within those last ten miles.  Three hills that would be tiresome had you not just cycled for 83 miles.  When I saw the first one, I just yelled out, “nooooooooo.”  Pedaling as hard as I could, standing up, I’m yelling at myself in my own head, “you will not get off this bike and walk it.  You hear, me?  You pussy.  You will ride up this hill and whatever hill comes next.  I will accept nothing less from you.  Just.  Do.  It.

I played Shia LeBeouf’s motivation speech in my head.  I wouldn’t realize till the next day because my jaw would be sore, but I was clenching my jaw so fucking hard.  I thought about comedy, and all the times I thought it was impossible.  Keep going.  Just do it.  I thought about when I first moved out of my parents house, and how I thought I’d never survive financially, and I’d become homeless, but I didn’t.  Keep going.  Just do it.  I thought about waves I battled when I thought I was going to drown.  Keep going.  Just do it.  I thought about college, high school, middle school, and all the times I was overwhelmed (which is a lot) and how it all turned out just fine.  Keep going.  Just do it.

Then there was a second hill.  And a third hill.  My body was dead.  I was in pain.  But I clenched my jaw and I did what I said I was going to do.  Don’t stop moving your legs.  Now, the sun was shining.  It seemed apropos that the sun would shine at Montauk.  Like poetry.

I’d never been so stoked to see a lighthouse in my entire life.  Once we saw it there, I yelled out, “yes, we did it!  Fuck you!  We did it!”  Not sure who I was saying ‘fuck you’ to.  Myself, probably.  93 miles, in about 8 1/2 hours.  93 miles of both physical and mental endurance.  93 miles.  Something I would never do again, but proud to brag that I did it once.

We took a cab back to town, where we cheers to ourselves for being batshit insane, and enjoyed a cold beer.  We ordered food, and talked about our sore asses.  We’re beyond exhausted.  Delirious, maybe.  No, we didn’t bike ride back.  That would not be possible.  There’s no way my ass would allow me to sit on a bicycle seat.  We drank and ate till the next train, which wouldn’t be till 10:30.  93 miles is so far, it even takes the train two and a half hours to get back to Babylon.

The following morning, it hurt to stand and sit down.  My knees, quads, and ass were all so tenderly sore.  I was kicked out of my parents house, as they were having an open house.  My first instinct was to go somewhere to write, but I couldn’t sit for any extended period of time.  I need to lay on a couch.  I drove out to my cousin’s house, to lay on her couch, where she was planning on doing much of the same, recovering from a hangover.  As perfect as any cloudy Saturday could be, we lounged on the couch and watched movies.  Later, I’d take a hot bath, and pain killers, and sleep better than I’ve slept in weeks, even on the uncomfortable bed in the guest room at my parents house.

On Sunday morning, I’d wake up, put on my wetsuit and head to the beach.  I feel good today.  Really good.  Physically, and mentally.  It would be nice, wouldn’t it, if at the end of struggle, there was a lighthouse, and a beer waiting for you.  And a friend, by your side, the whole way to empathize with your pain, and share your reward.  Wouldn’t it be nice to know exactly how many more miles you had to endure before reaching The End?

I’ve been told, over and over, it’s not about the end game, it’s about the journey.  While I agree with them, I sometimes struggle to find fulfillment in the journey.  This is the good part, I remind myself.  Being in your twenties, and living life according to my rules, pursuing my dream, and waves in between; this is the good part.  It may never get better than this.

I can laugh at it all.  Biking 93 miles… what a lunatic.  It’s funny.  Oh my God, it’s so funny.  I’m in it, again.  I’m here on planet Earth.  My obsessive worrying cast to the side, at least for now.  Until my next whim.  Until the next time I go stir crazy.